


Disappearing into Thin Air

by DeanWinchest



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, Case Fic, Circus, Circus Performer John, Knife Throwing, M/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Undercover Sherlock, aerobatics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 02:55:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2008293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeanWinchest/pseuds/DeanWinchest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of dead bodies have been following a circus' way around England, and Sherlock Holmes goes undercover in order to find what Scotland Yard can't. </p><p>John Watson is a circus performer with a colourful past he wishes to forget yet relive. </p><p>Will Sherlock find the killer or will he fall into the safety net of John Watson's arms?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing a circus AU, and I may be taking a lot of liberties, so bear with me.
> 
> I will still be writing on my other story, "A Strong Human", so no worries. 
> 
> This story is unbeta'ed nor britpicked. 
> 
> Tags will be added as the story come along

He was flying high, between swings, feeling the nothingness fill him up as the crowd zoned out, and he heard nothing but his own breathing and slow heartbeat.

Every time he was in the air, he felt as if he would never land; he felt like he had spent eternity, floating through ages when he finally clasped his partner’s wrists. His partner in turn would grasp him, take a swing, back and forth, and John would be flying again.

The net beneath them was rarely needed, especially not during a show, but that night, the nothingness John always felt, suddenly made way for the impending feeling of slipping through his partners fingers and falling down. It was nothing more than a hitch of breath, just the feeling of regret of messing up during a show, until he hit the net - and the net fell with him.

John Watson was never seen as a aerobatic again.


	2. Meeting an old friend

Sherlock had dreaded the thought of living in the constant smell of excrements and sweaty workers and performers, but nothing compared to the experience of sleeping in the smallest trailer he could ever had imagined. Even the animals had it better than him - mostly.

The consultant detective wiped the sweat off his forehead as he hammered a peg into the ground. He cursed his brilliant mind for thinking up this cover. He should have entered the circus as a performer instead of one of the people to set up the show tent.

 _No_ , he thought to himself as he bitterly hammered the next peg into the ground. _Performers are recognised and are expected to practice. Handymen come and go._

He definitely chose the right undercover persona, he knew, but he hated to have to waste his breath on this trivial work. His boss kept a close eye on him, so he didn’t have a chance to slip away, unfortunately.

He just had to remind himself why he was doing this - a case, of course. A case on level 9, actually.

Recently there had been a trail of dead bodies around England. The police had been stumped as to why - until Sherlock told them it followed a certain circus around - a circus he was now undercover in, in order to find suspects.

The police had been surprised to find that the crooks in the circus had stuck together and had applied an alibi to every suspect, they could think of - and that was a lot. People, who came to the circus, was often had a record, because after a while it was damn near impossible to find anywhere, who would hire a previous convict. 

Sherlock tired of the Yards lack of results and decided to enter the circus himself. Of course, without the Yards knowledge. Sherlock might be excellent at ignoring Donovan and Anderson’s insults, but there really was no need to provoke them into call him “freak”, more than already.

“Oi, Lanky!” Sherlock turned at his new nickname, given to him by his boss. “Stop daydreaming and get your arse back to work!”

Gritting his teeth, Sherlock got back to work and promised he would do some experiments on the boss’ dinner later that night.

 

John took a deep breath. The show tonight would be the first in London. They had been on the road for about three months now, and John was finally getting used to be on the road again. Though his trailer was far better than most, it still wasn’t the same as his old apartment.

John reminisced for a moment, thinking back on the time he was used to being on the road. He had been around twenty back then, and he would always think of it as the prime of his life. He and his group of aerobatics had been the talk of the circus community. Back then he couldn’t imagine his life outside of the circus; breathing air that didn’t smell like elephants, or living in an apartment or, God forbid, a _house_!

The sand blond man snorted at the trouble he and his group would get into, when there wasn’t a show and they were bored. Once, they had almost stolen an elephant - _almost_.

His mind clouded quickly and touched his suddenly aching shoulder.

 _That was a long time ago, Watson_ , he thought to himself. _Now, focus on your new job._

With that thought, he picked up his knives, took aim and landed five into the marked spaces on the spinning platform. His assistant was elsewhere, so he just shot at markings at the moment.

“John?” The blond turned to find a dark haired man with glasses at the entrance of the tent. “John Watson?”

“Hello…?” Though haven’t the slightest as who this man could possibly be, he still extended his hand to greet him.

“Mike Stamford, from Cirque de Bart,” he smiled and John immediately recognised him - he had put on a bit of weight since those days.

“Oh, yes, hello,” John said, much more comfortable now that he recognised the man.

“I know,” the man suddenly said with a humorous glint in his brown eyes. “I got fat.”

John snorted, and all of the tension left the tent.

“Wasn’t going to say that,” he said.

“Haven’t seen you since Bart,” Mike continued with a grin. “What have you been doing? I thought you were up in the air somewhere, falling to your death.”

All the tension came back tenfold and John made his face deliberately blank at the subject.

“I was falling to my death,” John strained and forced a smile on - it probably looked more like a grimace, and Stamford immediately picked up on it; all colour draining from his face.

“Oh…” he just said.

They chatted for a while after that, but it was strained and John only paid half a mind to what was spewing out of Stamford’s mouth. He picked up on a couple of things though: Stamford had met this wonderful circus clown partner, perfect for his gig; the director had hired a lot of newbie performers this year, and something about a snarky worker, who put down everyone who dared provoke him.

 _I wouldn’t last a day in the workers trailers,_ John thought to himself as he said goodbye to Mike and turned back to practice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, our babies will meet in the next chapter.


	3. Floor or Air?

Sherlock had only been at the circus for about a week and he was already at his wits end. He had interrogated next to no one, and had absolutely no clues. Most of the workers around him had little to no brain - he almost missed having to deal with Scotland Yard instead of these nimrods.

It was the second day of the performances, which meant he would soon have to help take down the performance tent again. He shuddered at the thought, as he sneaked away from his duties. His boss weren’t around to yell at him and none of the other’s was doing anything productive either.

Sherlock was just wandering about as he broke down the evidence in his head. The victims had all taken some sort of drug; voluntarily as there was no sign of struggle, which indicated suicide, except it wasn’t.

Who went around the country without people paying mind as to why? Circus people, clearly. But there were hundreds of workers and performers in a circus - it definitely wasn’t going to be an easy case, which normally would be brilliant, but Sherlock was beyond frustrated at this point. Mostly because he had to work so much and didn’t have to time to sniff around.

“Oi!” someone called and Sherlock was just about to hide, fearing it was his boss, telling him to go back to work. Instead, Sherlock turned and found an overweight man catching up to him. “You’re that new worker, who yells at people, right?”

“So I seem to be,” Sherlock drawled, a bit irritated that the stranger had interrupted his thoughts.

“Mike,” the man greeted and Sherlock hesitantly shook his hand.

“Sherlock.” The man had a firm handshake, if not a little damp.

“How do you like working at the Chaplin Brothers?” Mike asked, seemingly interested.

“The Chaplin Brothers Circus is quite satisfactory,” Sherlock lied. He had no idea whether or not this Mike was friends with his boss.

“I bet it’s awful working under Howard Litt,” Mike said honestly, referring to Sherlock’s boss.

Sherlock smiled a bit at this and decided he quite liked this man.

 

The last show of that town was done and over, and a couple of performers were gathered in the juggler group’s trailer, as it was the biggest.

John was drinking a beer and laughing at a joke one of the jugglers had made. Their accents were a bit thick as they were from Brasilia, but they had some amazing stories none the less.

“Hi, everyone, too late to join in?” Mike asked from the doorway, asking out of politeness because he knew that it was of course okay. He then surprised everyone by continuing with: “I found someone on the way here, I think you should meet.”

Mike moved aside and a tall, dark haired, skinny man was visible. He pierced everyone with his silvery blue eyes, as if he saw through every last one of them.

John visibly gulped when the eyes landed on him, but he didn’t avoid eye contact. A quick shimmer of amusement flickered in the tall man’s eyes, but he said nothing and continued staring everyone down.

“His name is Sherlock,” Mike announced and continued to introduce everyone else in the trailer. John raised his beer in greeting when Mike said his name, but Sherlock seemed to already have lost all interest in whoever was in the trailer. Instead it seemed like he almost _admired_ the trailer.

It struck John that Sherlock probably was a worker and lived in shite conditions so far.

“A bit different from the worker’s trailers, I take,” John said to confirm his suspicions. Sherlock turned his attention to him as Mike, who was already striking up a conversation with one of the jugglers, sat down.

Sherlock hummed a somewhat confirm and reluctantly sat down between John and a muscle man called Angelo. Now, Angelo wasn’t the friendliest person to strangers - he for the most part ignored Sherlock, so John felt like he had to at least _try_ to entertain the poor worker.

“So,” John started. “Where are you from?”

Sherlock didn’t even look at him as he murmured a reply John couldn’t understand. The brunette was too busy staring at everyone at once. John took it as the other man didn’t want to talk, so he didn’t try to. Instead he turned to Sarah, a horse tamer, and flirted a bit with her. She definitely didn’t seem to mind that. He almost forgot about Sherlock, until Sarah told him a joke that made him laugh and accidentally glance at the other man - who had now turned his excruciating stare towards John. John stopped laughing and asked the worker what was wrong, since he was paying mind to John.

“Floor or air?” Sherlock asked out of the blue.

“Pardon?” John asked and felt everyone turn towards them. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mike smirk.

“Floor or air,” Sherlock repeated like he dreaded doing so, but continued anyway. “You’re clearly a performer in the circus, as you seem to know all the performers yourself and assuming, since you don’t know me, that I was a worker. Therefore, a performer.  
Now, what kind is where it gets tricky. You clearly have the muscles of a gymnast, though they don’t seem to have been kept any time recently, so maybe a back-up performer of sorts. So, a gymnast, who either performers solo or doesn’t like his partner. I would say floor, as you don’t seem to dislike anyone, but I don’t do assumptions, so floor gymnast or air gymnast?”

The whole trailer went quit, and that was saying something, when it contained slightly drunk circus performers.

“Brilliant,” John breathed before he could stop himself.

Sherlock looked slightly taken aback by this. “Really?”

“Yeah, absolutely brilliant,” John said not backing down from his previous statement.

“That’s not people usually say.”

“What do people usually say?”

“Piss off,” he confessed with a slight grin.

For a second it was quiet but then John burst out laughing, earning a chuckle from the otherwise unamused worker.

“But,” Sherlock sobered, “floor or air?”

“None of them,” John said, still grinning, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, thinking John was lying. “I’m a knife thrower.”

Sherlock’s eyes flew to his hands and the man looked utterly confused.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Sherlock muttered, mostly to himself.

“It’s true though,” Stamford suddenly confirmed, making the two men aware of the rest of the people in the trailer. “But he-“

“I’m a knife thrower, and have been for the past seven years,” John interrupted and send Mike a look saying shut-it-right-now-or-so-help-me.

Sherlock, who would usually have picked up and that looked, seemed to be lost in his own thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chap will be from Sherlock's POV and a little sumfinsumfin will perhaps set its seeds in the consultant detective


	4. A Fair Deduction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I'm off for a while and probably won't be writing the next weeks time, but I wanted you guys to at least have something to amuse yourself with until I'm back.

Sherlock had been wandering the circus area, as the other workers were beginning to take down the show tent. Most of it would be done tomorrow, but some things moved that night.

The consultant detective was getting rather good at avoiding his boss, which resulted in a lot less work and a lot more snooping around. Sherlock still hadn’t found any clues yet, though, and he was thinking through the established facts, when a hand landed on his shoulder.

“Evening, Sherlock,” Mike grinned. “Lovely weather for a walk, innit?” If Mike knew Sherlock was supposed to be elsewhere, he didn’t say so.

“Supposedly,” Sherlock hesitantly agreed.

“I’m heading over to some chaps of mine, have drink or three,” Mike said and answered a question Sherlock didn’t ask. “Want to come with?”

For a moment, Sherlock considered declining and surely never meet this man again, but he quickly reconsidered. If he could get close to at least some of the performers, he could expand his investigation.

“I would be delighted,” he said with a smile he imagined Mycroft would use in this occasion.

“Great!”

When they entered the trailer, Mike got busy with introducing everyone as if they would actually remember each other for more than a day.

Sherlock, instead, took a moment to appreciate the trailer, which looked like a five star hotel, compared to his own. He considered for a moment to charm one of the performers, just so he could sleep somewhere else than his own hideous trailer.

He then let his eyes slide past the performers. The ones that weren’t already hammered looked uncomfortable at his stare and avoided his eyes - except one. A sand blond gent, though looking mostly like a deer in headlights, held his stare, refusing at all costs to lose this game of chicken. Though Sherlock found the silent challenge amusing, he didn’t come here to play games, so he bypassed the performer and analysed the others instead.

He vaguely remembers someone trying to strike up a conversation with him, but he didn’t pay the person any mind. Instead he spent about half an hour trying to deduce whether or not anyone in the trailer could commit anything other than a petty crime - because, surely, every single one in that trailer had some kind of colourful past.

A laugh ripped him out of his thoughts, and for a moment he wanted to snap that person’s neck in half, but when he turned, he found a sight he didn’t expect.

The sand blond - what was his name? - was laughing at something the brown haired girl had said, and he looked so absolutely…

Sherlock frowned and tried to think the thought to end, but he couldn’t really find any words to describe it with. Instead he just found himself feeling an odd sensation in his whole body, which he couldn’t suppress.

The man caught him staring and quickly sobered - and just like that, the feeling left Sherlock as well.

Odd.

“Is something the matter?” Sherlock realised the man had spoken to him.

Sherlock reached for the first thing that popped into his mind, which was of course a deduction.

And he was more than a little surprised to find himself being wrong. Though the man had complimented his skills, an odd occurrence by itself, he neither denied the deduction nor confirmed it. A look at the performer’s hands told Sherlock that he was indeed a knife thrower.

Without caring for another word out of anyone’s mouth, Sherlock dived into his mind palace to figure out, why he had been wrong - and as to why the knife thrower was now a lot more interesting than before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand he's screwed.


	5. Getting Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys, sorry about the wait. I could say I was busy with school or the likes, but really it was just a writers block. I'm hoping I will get to update more frequently from here on, but I can make no promises.

_Breathe in, breathe out._

_Breathe in, breathe out._

_Breathe in… Fall down._

 

* * *

 

 

John woke in a pool of his own sweat. For a moment, he fumbled in the dark but could not find the bedside table or his lamp, so he tried sitting up. It was when his face connected with the roof of the trailer that he remembered he was not in London – he was in the circus, God knows where.

He untangled his limbs from the sheets and decided he would do well with a walk. Having pulled on some trousers and a windbreaker, he set out to get some fresh air and clear his head.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock was lighting a cigarette in the dark of the night on the other side of the circus grounds.

The last week had done him absolutely no good whatsoever. He had met quite a few performers and workers alike, but to no avail. He was beginning to think that he had been completely wrong about the circus. The Yard had tried reaching him quite a few times to get his help, but Sherlock was already on it – not really being a big help, but he refused to admit that. His doubt had even gotten as far as making him consider dropping the case, until another murder appeared – in the neighbourhood of the circus. The public knew nothing of the circus’ possible involvement yet, but the police was beginning to suspect it, if Sherlock had deduced Lestrades texts correctly.

The brown-haired man took a long drag of the cigarette, held it in for a moment – and let it out. There was no next to no wind so the smoke danced and twirled around itself while the nicotine ran through the addict’s body. Mycroft may have taken away his remedies to get his hands on drugs, but cigarettes he could do nothing about.

A smug smile appeared on the consultant detective’s lips as he closed his eyes and tried to silence his mind – admitted, his mind was never quiet, but the nicotine did help set everything in a sort of order. It was nothing compared to heroin, but you do with what you have.

Someone cleared their voice behind him, and Sherlock sighed loudly at the interruption. It really was not easy to get a moment of silence around here.

“Yes?” he said impatiently as he turned. He almost regretted sighing before when he found the blond performer standing there, hands in his pockets.

“Sherlock, right?” He pulled his hand out of his pocket, reaching forward in a greeting.

Sherlock stared silently at the hand until the man dropped it. Though Sherlock found the man interesting, he did not like the stranger.

“Right,” the man said, mostly to himself. He cleared his throat again, awkwardly avoiding the detectives stare.

_Probably regrets speaking out to me now_ , Sherlock thought and took another drag of the cigarette.

“London.”

“Pardon?” the stranger asked.

“I’m from London,” Sherlock elaborated, thinking he should have left it be. Of course, the man would have forgotten about the last time they had spoken. Sherlock may not have paid much mind to the stranger’s questions, but he had registered it and not deleted it for some odd reason. Thinking about it, many things seemed odd around the sandy haired male.

“Oh, right, of course,” the stranger quickly amended. “I’m from London as well.”

Sherlock had deduced as much, but was not confident enough to have spoken his suspicion. Not after having been wrong about the last one. His throat burned with questions, prying at how he could look like a gymnast but be a knife thrower. He wanted so badly to solve this blond mystery, but a voice sounding oddly like Mrs. Hudson, shushed him in the back of his mind and told him it was a bit not good.

“You have an alcoholic brother.” This deduction he was sure of and for some reason, he needed to prove himself to this stranger. More than most.

“Excuse me?”

Sherlock elaborated and the stranger confided that, yes; he was right – or almost at least. It was a sister, but it did not matter when the blonde-haired stranger’s eyes gleamed with admiration. How deep and blue they seemed; how one could almost get lost trying to pry every single detail from them – even in the dark.

Sherlock shook himself.

A bit not good indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it - comments and kudos motivate me, and ideas are very appriciated!


	6. Mercy on the locals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, I was busy with a show, but anyway here's another chapter. Not sure what to feel about it, but do let me know, what you think.

They did not speak again after that – not until at least a week later.

John had forgotten about the strange worker – or at least he liked to think so. Bit of a lie actually; he may not deliberately think of Sherlock, but he did catch himself looking twice while passing someone with brown hair.

And if he sometimes caught himself trying to deduce things about people, none would be the wiser, as he did not do remotely as well as the worker. He could not even notice Mike had taken up smoking again, even being in the practice arena with him.

It was only when a certain someone pointed it out to him.

John was practicing his shooting with some new knives – they were not for the show, they were just a treat for himself really – and Mike laughing about one of his own jokes at a safe distance. The knife thrower was too concentrated to really listen to the humorous man behind him. Or self-proclaimed humorous at least.

“Quitting did never seem to be your strong point.” The deep rumble cut straight through John’s concentration and he could feel the knife slip out of his grasp prematurely. It landed way off mark, and as he went to retrieve it, he could feel two pair of eyes burning his back.

“So, that’s why you haven’t been as grumpy lately,” laughed John as he turned, trying to ease the tension his embarrassment brought him. Mike shot him a look half guilty, half how-could-three-continent-Watson-be-that-far-off. Sherlock looked evenly at him, though John tried not being disrupted by the cool gaze.

“Guilty as charged,” Mike admitted and held up his hands in defeat. Only now, John noticed the smell of smoke, though it might as well have been Sherlock for all John knew. “What can we do for you, Sherl?”

John tried not to laugh at the nickname, Mike gave Sherlock, but he outright snorted when he saw the brown-haired man’s look of dismay.

“Actually,” he continued as if he had not just gotten the most ridiculous name ever. “I was wondering if John would show me to the nearest post office in town.” He looked expectantly at the shorter man.

“Sorry, I’m practicing at the moment,” John said a bit reluctantly. He did want to spend some more time with the odd man, but he had to begin his real practice for the show in two days. “Mike can show you, though.”

“Obviously not,” the taller snapped, surprising both John and Mike. “Mike has never been into town before, and you are as ready as you can get; you hardly need to practice anymore.”

“And how would you know how much practice I need,” John countered stubbornly, unconsciously straightening and taking his military stance.

“Please, I’ve watched you practice, there’s nothing more to do.” The worker hardly seemed embarrassed about admitting it, but John could feel a little tingling in his hands at the words.

“You’ve been watching me,” John stated and slipped out of the military stance. He cleared his throat and straightened again. “Practicing,” he amended.

“Yes,” the taller reluctantly admitted.

John pursed his lips and thought about it for a moment. _Oh, who cares…_

“I suppose, I can show you into town then,” John finally agreed and thought he saw the brunette relax a bit. “Wouldn’t want you to have to _ask for directions_. Mercy on the poor locals if that were to happen.”

“Indeed,” said Sherlock and let on a small smile. John outright grinned back.

Mike stood in the background, completely forgotten. They might not be able to see it, but Mike definitely could. This was going to get interesting.

**Author's Note:**

> Do tell me if you liked the story or if you have any ideas or wishes about what you want to see in the story. I may fit it in somewhere.


End file.
